


Spring Storms

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "It comes over them slowly.Sky slowly darkening, filling in the gaps, getting rid of any soft spots of blue, until they are completely gone. Until the clouds block out the sky as far as they can see, sinking them into a world of grey."Geralt and Jaskier get caught out in the rain. It's almost fun at first, until clothes become well soaked and the chill starts to set in, that is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 120





	Spring Storms

They awake that day to an overcast morning. Light grey clouds rolled across the sky, blocking out the suns weak attempts to push through and wake them up.

It’s a lazy, late morning without the sun to nudge them on. Jaskier wakes slowly, reluctantly rolling free of his bedroll, the day doing little to encourage him to move.

Even Geralt seems slowed by the lack of sun. sluggish and distracted, sharp eyes constantly glancing wearily upwards, towards the rolling expanse of grey.

The clouds shift above them, a blanketing sea of darkness. 

to start it is an incomplete blanket, broken in some spots, revealing little patches of blue, true sky not yet completely drowned out. Offering the suggestion of something brighter. Lighter.

But all it takes is a glance at the horizon to dispel any hope of seeing the sun. The edges of the sky are dark. A deep, threatening colour, dark and tinged with patches of black. They gather together, mixing and shifting carefully towards them.

It comes over them slowly.

Sky slowly darkening, filling in the gaps, getting rid of any soft spots of blue, until they are completely gone. Until the clouds block out the sky as far as they can see, sinking them into a world of grey. A dark, deep grey, the world shrinking around them, growing cold and hazy. Edges fading away, soft and unclear.

The rain starts around midday. Slowly at first. Slow, fat droplets, lazily ambling their way down from the sky, smashing heavy and weighted against the earth. They tumble down, bouncing against the trees as they go before splattering against the ground.

Thick droplets land on their skin, sticking tight, soaking in. A small splash of wetness against their flesh.

They patter down against the ground, bursting on impact, to scatter and splash up against their legs.

It is light and pleasant, the forest seems to come alive under the drizzle, leaves bouncing and shifting at the touch, rustling above their heads. The sweet, fresh smell of the earth rising from the ground beneath their feet, released by the falling droplets.

The distant rumbling on the horizon however hints at something more to come.

Raindrops gradually grow in number, until the occasional, avoidable drop has become a torrent, bearing down against them.

It is almost nice, to start with.

The feeling of rain against skin, droplets sticking to Jaskier’s lashes, flicking off as he blinks.

He likes the sound. The muffled pitter patter of rain against leaves. The heavy beat when it grows in force, striking the earth hard and strong. The splash of a good puddle, water already pooling and collecting in every little crevice it can find.

It’s comfortable.

To be bundled up warm, walking through the soft downpour.

Real.

He feels it, beating against him, not enough to hurt, only just enough to remind him he exists. A comforting, familiar beat.

Drops running down his face, cool and fresh, soaking into exposed hair, slicking it down, sticking it to his forehead. Soaking into any exposed fabric it can find and settling persistently against his skin.

It is cold, but not harsh. A gentle cold, only nipping at the tips of Jaskier’s fingers, delivering no real bite. He presses the cold tips into the palms of his hands to feel the warmth, keep them alive, keep the blood flowing.

The droplets are persistent, falling in an uneven rhythm, at times suddenly picking up to beat hard against their skin, before subsiding back down into a gentle, pattering fall. Seemingly always shifting, never staying quiet the same, one moment to the next.

It makes, Jaskier thinks, for a wondrous sound, something so regular yet unpredictable all at once.

Geralt tips his head back on occasion. as though to feel the droplets against his face, calm and cooling to the touch. He does not take as much enjoyment in it as Jaskier, not revelling in its comforts in the way the bard seems to.

Instead he notes the little annoyances, the way the water collects in his hair, clumping strands together and sticking it to his neck, flicking away whenever he turns his head.

The leather saddle below him has become slick with rain, forcing him to put in more effort just to stay upright, fingers digging in when he almost slips, grabbing tight and fighting to remain upright. The reins almost slipping through his fingers on more than one occasion.

It does not help that Roach seems less than keen on the weather as well, stopping to shake the droplets from her mane when it gets too much, tail flicking irritably, often splattering the bard in the process.

Jaskier just laughs at the display, wiping the scattering of dirty water from his face, seemingly not at all bothered.

But even his joy can’t withstand the persistent beating of an early spring storm.

Even for Jaskier the appeal gradually wears off, as the hours wear on, and dark storm clouds continue to gather, showing no sign of stopping. If anything, they grow darker.

Soon the far-off rumbles, bright and amusing at a distance when they suddenly cry out from the distance, feel as they are almost upon them. The sky above them is churning, twisting and crying.

The sound is loud, loud enough to drown out any attempts at conversation, overwhelm the senses, fully surround one with the rain.

The rain itself has also taken on a… harsher edge. A bite it had previously lacked. The refreshing cool touch building until it is freezing.

Water continuing to fall until it is overwhelming.

Finding every crack and crevice it can sink into, finding ways round their soft defences to sink into any exposed fabric they find. Collecting there until the cloth is fully saturated, sticking flat against their skin.

It’s cold. Wet fabric plastered against their flesh, drawing out the warmth from their bodies.

Jaskier shivers at the chill. A slight but persistent shake setting into his body. His hands have long past a light numbness to something much more uncomfortable. Fingers uncomfortably numb and freezing. stuffed deep into pockets in a desperate attempt to maintain some extent of feeling.

His toes are cold as well. Water had found its way to his socks, soaking in, pooling at the toes.

He curls them in his boot, trying to maintain the feeling in them as well, knowing it is a lost hope. That the water has already won that battle.

His face is numb. Cheeks stinging as the rain strikes them, he can’t feel his nose any more at all.

The water pools around his boots, filling in the indents from each step the moment he lifts his foot.

The ground itself is becoming saturated. Dirt churned up and mixed into mud. Boots sinking in deeper with each step.

An initial pleasant squelch becoming an uncomfortable annoyance, ground clinging to his boots, trying to hold them in place.

It sticks and splatters up, gluing itself to his clothing wherever it happens to land.

Roach doesn’t like the mud anymore than Jaskier, huffing in irritation when her hooves sink in uncomfortably deep, or slips sharply against the slick ground.

She flicks her head, annoyed and irritated with the water soaked into her hair, sticking uncomfortably to her skin.

Jaskier sneezes. Shivers increasing in number, feeling cold and waterlogged, heavy under the weight of the rain.

It only gets worse when what little sun manages to filter through starts to fade away as well. Sun dipping below the horizon, weak strains of light draining away, an already grey world shifting even darker dusty blue black.

Geralt kicks Roach on, aiming to reach town before nightfall.

Jaskier grumbles quietly but follows along, walking as quickly as the mud will allow, doing his best not to slip and fall. He breaths a deep sigh of relief when a splattering of bright, hazy lights become visible below them on the horizon.

They both speed up at the sight, all but slipping half the way there.

The town is silent when they arrive, windows shut tight, streets empty, everyone locked away from the rain and the cold. They push on slowly, the uneven stone paving managing to be even more slick and slippery than the mud was.

They all but stumble to the first available inn, Geralt staying out to get roach settled in the stable while Jaskier goes to look for a room.

Jaskier pushes open the heavy door to the inn, water running off him in aggressive streams, splattering against the wooden floor.

The building is thankfully not empty, populated by a handful of scattered of customers, spread out throughout the room.

He waves down the inn-keep, water unintentionally flicking off his fingers, splattering onto the bar.

The man crinkles his nose at the dirty splatter, looking him up and down, taking in the mess and offering him an unimpressed stare.

Jaskier smiles as best he can through clattering teeth, trying to ease the tension, not cost them their best chance at a warm bed for the night.

Going off the judging stare it earns it doesn’t seem to work.

Thankfully the coins in his purse clearly speak to a different tune.

The man’s stern frown melting into a sickly-sweet smile as he accepts payment for food and bed more than happily. He points Jaskier up the stairs with a fake cheery smile, the mask of joy dropping somewhat at the sight of the wet and muddy prints Jaskier’s boots inevitably leave behind him.

Not that the bard has mind to care, only focused on reaching the comforts of a warm room, a soft bed, and a hot meal. The sooner he can get out of his mess of wet clothing, the better.

Jaskier pushes his way into the room, stubborn wooden door sticking as he bangs against it, finally managing to shove it open with a firm whack of the shoulder. He tosses his items down as soon as he enters, abandoning them to the side of the room.

Jaskier lugs off his coat, moving as quickly as he can, only somewhat hindered by numbed and frozen fingers, scrambling to slide open the bloody buttons.

Jaskier drops the coat, lets it lay where it falls, not yet feeling bothered enough to move it. He tugs free the shirt next, soaked through as it is, sticking determinedly against his chest, cold and clammy. Frozen fingers run into another obstacle with the belt, struggling to tug it open.

Finally succeeding he tugs off the wet trousers, a task proving much more difficult than usual, fabric stiff and irritating, also sticking itself determinedly to his skin wherever it touched.

He does the best he can to kick them off, tripping over his own feet and winding up lying on the bed, still determinedly trying to tug his legs free.

Jaskier had only just managed to knock the bloody things aside when the door suddenly swings open, startling the hell out of him. He freezes, eyes flicking up in terrified surprise, breathing a sigh of relief when it proves to just be Geralt, pushing into the room, still blinking the water from his eyes. 

He snorts at the sight of Jaskier, practically naked, sprawled out on the bed, clothes scattered hectically around the room, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the mess.

Jaskier glowers back, he tugs the blanket up from the bed, or at least attempts to. He means to simply pull it round his shoulders, but the blanket is bulky, and fabric sticks to his wet skin, resulting in him becoming tangled and wrapped in the mess of fabric instead.

It covers his body if nothing else, although he still shivers, still somewhat cold, sniffling irritably.

Geralt ignores Jaskier’s grumbling, focusing on tugging off his own mess of wet clothing instead, taking at least some more care in the process then Jaskier did. The Witcher takes the care to wipe slick liquid from leather armour, setting it carefully aside, hung up to dry.

More of his clothes follow not long after, wet shirt peeled off and draped over a chair to dry. He leaves the pants alone for the time, instead focusing on trying to coax alive a fire in the room’s small fireplace, musty wood determinedly working against him.

At some point Jaskier manages to wrangle his head free of his blanket cocoon, finally settling it comfortably around his shoulders as he had intended.

He doesn’t stare. He watches. Respectfully.

Very respectfully, watching Geralt’s muscles shift, the Witcher bent over his task, broad back on display.

The wood eventually catches, weak sparks are carefully watched and nurtured into a proper burn, Geralt sitting back on his heels with a satisfied grunt. Geralt stands, taking a moment to soak in the weak radiating off the weak fire.

He lets it dry the sheen of dampness still left on his skin, the front of his pants dried as well, becoming uncomfortably stiff while the back is still unpleasantly wet. He picks at the fabric, trying to pull it free from gluing itself to his skin.

Jaskier watches as a bead of water trails down Geralt’s chest, dripping from his still soaked hair. Following the drop down until it evaporates, stopped short in the heat of their small fire.

Geralt catches the stare, raising an accusing eyebrow, but Jaskier simply buries back down into his blanket in place of answering.

Geralt rolls his eyes, offering an unimpressed shake of the head, finally moving to undo his trousers.

Jaskier’s head slowly re-emerges at the action.

Not staring.

He swears.

Regardless, if Geralt takes any concern to the peering eyes he doesn’t mention it. The Witcher takes his time with the task, newly warmed fingers flicking open buttons as he ambled away from the fire, back towards their bags. He pauses before the table, finally sliding off the stiff fabric, kicking thick trousers aside, leaving him bare.

From within the pile of blankets Jaskier whistles, earning him a judging stare.

Geralt grumbles, digging open a bag to tug free two loose evening shirts. Turning towards the bed he tosses one towards the muddle of blankets, before lazily pulling the other over his head, talking half-blind steps towards the bed. 

Geralt reaches the bed, tugging down the edge of his shirt and peering down at the rolled up round of fabric, a mop of messy brown hair sticking out of the centre.

Geralt yawns, stretching. shirt edge quickly riding up over his stomach. He hums, offering the pile a firm poke and judging “ _Jaskier.”_

The blanket pile sighs, Jaskier reluctantly letting go of his comfortable blanket pile, letting them relax and slip slightly down his shoulders, but not giving up on it completely. Instead a hand darts out, grabbing the shirt where it had landed, tugging it back into his warm bubble.

Getting it on without utterly destroying the frame of his warm cocoon proves challenging, Jaskier winding up somewhat half tangled in the shirt, blanket now pooled around his hips, slipped completely from his shoulders.

He shivers, chest once again exposed to the warm air, not yet recovered with fabric.

Above him Geralt offers another tired sigh, leaning over to help Jaskier un-muddle the tangled mess he had managed to create for himself.

Shirt sorted, Geralt nudges him over, doing his best to shove Jaskier to the side as comfortably as possible, allowing him to slide in beside him in the bed. He tries to detangle the blanket from around the bard’s legs, tug it free from where it was tucked comfortably under Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier squawks at the move, not pleased to part with his wonderful source of warmth.

Geralt ignores the sound, collapsing back on the bed, head hitting the pillow with a comfortable thud, bringing as much of the blanket as he could with him.

Jaskier gives a scandalised cry at that, well and fully robbed of his source of warmth. He follows after the blanket, thumping down beside Geralt and grumpily tugging back as much of the fabric as he could get.

Geralt grunts irritably, promptly tugging the blanket back, ignoring Jaskier’s determined knee, pressing aggressively in his side as an attempt to maintain his grip on the fabric. Jaskier huffs, snapping out an irritated, “honestly, _Geralt._ ”

Geralt hums at the words, pulling the rest of the blanket over, for no reason other than to spite Jaskier.

“Oh, you bloody oaf!”

Suddenly an icy cold hand presses determinedly against Geralt’s body, frozen fingers pressing in against his armpit. Geralt shifts more in surprise than discomfort, grumbling out a question, “gods, how are you still so cold?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, instead tugging determinedly on the blanket once more.

Geralt sighs.

He shifts, but instead of giving up the blanket he tugs Jaskier over, ignoring the annoyed squawk the move earns him, pressing Jaskier against him before finally shifting the blanket over them both.

Jaskier grumbles. More out of principle than anything else but doesn’t move away. Instead he rests his head comfortably on Geralt’s chest, snuggled against the warmth radiating off the Witcher’s body.

He lets out a tired yawn, eyes already drooping closed, head comfortable and heavy.

Geralt snorts, offering a soft shake of the head, arm sliding round Jaskier’s shoulder to hold him close.

“Alright bard?”

Jaskier hums, nodding against the Witcher’s chest.

Geralt hums back, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, earning him a tired smile from Jaskier, bard tipping his head up to sleepily demand a proper kiss. Geralt snorts at the move, but obliges, pressing an admittedly somewhat sloppy kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

Not that the bard seems to mind, happily humming against Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier breaks the kiss with a satisfied sigh, settling back down against Geralt’s chest, finally starting to feel warm once again.

He shifts, a half shiver, curled around the warmth radiating off Geralt, soft and comfortable.

Listening to the rain falling outside.

the noisy pitter patter against the roof above them, beating out a determined pattern above them.

A regular rhythm, carefully lulling them off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
